Sign, Symbol, Token
by Dea Liberty
Summary: What does Lancelot really mean to Arthur? A series of short vignettes. 17; AL SLASH.


**Title:** Sign, Symbol, Token  
**Pairings:** Arthur/Lancelot (pre-slash)  
**Rating:** PG  
**A/N:** Written for the _Symbology 101_ challenge at the KA fanfiction group.  
**Feedback:** Everything, including constructive criticism is very much appreciated.  
**Summary:** What does Lancelot really mean to Arthur? A series of short vignettes.

It's a rag-tag little mob - his first command - a group of ruffian Sarmatian conscripts ("like a pack of foreign wild dogs; good luck Castus") who really looked as if following his orders was possibly the last thing they'd ever do. He sighs, fighting the urge to rub the bridge of his nose and actually _show_ his frustration - the centurion that's appeared beside him seems far too eager for any excuse to punish his newly acquired men - and he dismounts to meet them.

They're not exactly welcoming, not exactly thrilled to meet him - but then again, he hadn't really expected them to be. Still, he'd at least been expecting a little acknowledgement.

As if sensing his disappointment, the centurion seemed to perk up, offering Arthur the whip that he's holding in his hands. He shakes his head, pushing aside the offered equipment (horrified inside), and carries on walking down the line, looking at the faces, into the eyes of his command.

All the same sullen expressions, same distrust and defeat in each pair of eyes, same turned down stare (as if afraid to meet his gaze) - but, sneaking glances at the man walking beside him, he's really not surprised by that either.

And then his gaze locks with a pair of the most mesmerising brown eyes he thinks he's ever seen.

It's not the colour, he concludes, that catches his attention, but the defiance that seems to mask the fear in the young man's (still no more than a boy, really) eyes. He's never seen so much life, spirit, so much fire in a single gaze; calculating, bold.

"What's your name?" It comes out as a soft request, rather than any sort of command. The boy's chin tilts and Arthur realises he's not going to get an easy answer - if at all.

"What's it to you?" 

Arthur's lips start to curl slightly at the bold response - but the smile never fully forms; out of the corner of his eye, he spots the centurion's hand raising the whip - and Excalibur is out of its sheath before he's fully aware of what he's done (how is it possible he's become so protective so quickly?) and the whip's forced to curl around it, inches from the knight's face.

The fear in those eyes tells Arthur that the knight's not a stranger to the pain it brings; it's not the first time he's been harmed.

"Artorius?" The centurion meets his eyes and he can tell the man's as confused as his conscripts with his reaction.

"Don't," he warns quietly as he tugs the whip from his hands, letting it drop and re-sheathing Excalibur. "Not in _my_ command. Not unless it's by _me_ or under my orders and supervision. Am I understood, centurion?"

"Castus..." Familiarity with an edge of hidden caution - and it makes Arthur's hackles rise.

"This is _my_ command. I will deal with them as I see fit. Am I understood, centurion?" More firmly this time, mimicking the amount of warning in the other man's voice (eyes hard, glaring, fierce - exerting his authority).

"Yes, commander," The challenging gaze drops when Arthur doesn't back down from his decision, but the officer goes on, voice clipped with annoyance, "but I suggest you don't let insubordination go without punishment."

Arthur glares for a moment longer and takes the warning for what it's meant to be, nodding and then turning away, back to the line - only to find those defiant eyes looking at him in a whole different light. He gives a short nod of acknowledgement before moving on to the next man in line (a small blond boy, hands clenched too tightly around the hilt of a blade).

"I have no intention of doing that, centurion, but that was a request not a command." He takes a few more steps, motioning for the officer to follow, noting the wary respect creeping into the way the soldiers look at him (he'd learnt from his father, wanted to have that same respect, that same love - not hate and fear). "There's no obligation to fulfil requests and no punishment should they choose not to."

"Lancelot," comes a soft whisper from behind him, causing Arthur to turn around to look back at the boy that had caught his attention before, surprised. His gaze is turned down now, more respectful (still defiant, still stubborn - but more shy, almost, more tentative), watching him warily through lowered lashes.

"Pardon?"

"My name is Lancelot."

He smiles, nods to Lancelot in thanks, before moving on - and he feels awe, respect, acceptance almost ripple through his unit.

He'd later learn that he was the only person to have managed to learn Lancelot's name from the boy himself, willingly - without coercion; others had beaten it out of him, beaten it out of his friends.

It was acceptance - and, to him, Lancelot's name would always symbolise that.


End file.
